


Mirror Image

by The_Wavesinger



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: D/s, Extra Treat, F/F, Identity Porn, Loyalty, Power Dynamics, ToT: Chocolate Box
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-27 17:27:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8410285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wavesinger/pseuds/The_Wavesinger
Summary: A ritual in which Padmé and Sabé exchange clothes and roles.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anaraine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anaraine/gifts).



> Your prompt hit me in all the right places, and I _knew_ I had to write something for it; I'm only afraid I may not have done it justice. I hope you enjoy this, anaraine!
> 
> (There's some loyalty kink and D/s here, but no explicit sex, sorry.)

The formal costumes of Naboo, the costumes reserved for those of the highest political echelons, serve many purposes.

Bedazzlement, of course, because who _wouldn't_ be impressed by the elaborate designs and rich material? Clothes are useful tools for senators and monarchs alike. And, of course, disguise and security, although this function is reserved more for the ruler than for the politician; the time-honoured tradition of body doubles, those most faithful servants, rests on the features of the queen (or king) being blurred under thick make up and layers of cloth.

For Sabé, each item of clothing is part of a character, part of a role she plays, and as she and her Queen—less the Queen and more Padmé with each passing moment—swap clothing, they also swap lives.

It is a private ritual the other handmaidens are not part of, and they strip each other gently, with practised hands. Right now, it is Sabé who has more work to do; the Queen's clothing is, obviously, much more elaborate than a mere handmaiden's. She cannot help but let her hand brush against bare skin as she undoes clasps and unties laces, down to the last layer now, and the Queen—Padmé—shivers.

Padmé steps out of her undergarments at last, and they are both naked, bodies mirroring each other, so similar yet so different. Sabé knows every line of Padmé's body, better, almost, than she knows her own. She knows every flaw and blemish, every pimple, all the tiny nuances of her body language, the way she walks and talks and breathes. Sabé knows Padmé in a way Padmé never could.

They look, for a moment. Then Padmé steps closer and brushes a kiss to Sabé's lips, brief and gentle. Her breasts press against Sabé's for a long moment, and something warms in Sabé's core.

Sabé pushes it down, attempts to will the arousal away. Now is not the time for love-making; that will come later, tonight. No matter how tempting it is to pull Padmé down onto the bed, lock the door, and ignore the rest of the galaxy, that is simply not possible.

Padmé pulls away, and her cheeks are flushed, just a little, only obvious if you look closely.

Then the next part of the ritual, the dressing, Sabé stepping into clothing and Padmé lacing her up, various zips and snaps and other contraptions entrapping her in a cage of cloth.

Each layer changes her, shapes her, and with each zip, each snap, each tied-up lace, Sabé's mannerism change, slowly, subtly. It is a long process (or seems long, at least), complicated by the touch, sometimes, of skin against skin, sending sparks of pleasure up her spine, jolting her out of the deep place to which she retreats as the Queen takes over.

The clothes hug her body tightly, and it is the Queen who steps into the shoes Padmé prepares. And then the hair, elaborate and perfect, each strand set just so, and then Padmé finishes, steps away.

“My Queen,” Padmé says, and there is a twist of—something in her voice. Sabé is the Queen, here, and yet not. Padmé is subservient—naked still, head bowed—yet not. The air thrums between them.

“Padmé,” the Queen says, and the spell is broken.

“My Queen?”

“Kneel.”

And this is another ritual; Padmé kneels, gracefully. When the Queen extends her hand, Padmé kisses it, her hair obscuring her face as she bows her head. They linger there for a long moment, Queen and handmaiden, Padmé's lips pressed against the Queen's fingers.

Then Padmé pulls away, and rises. “My Queen, may I dress?”

“You may.”

Slowly, she covers herself. Slowly, because the Queen watches through heavy-lidded eyes as Padmé, too, is obscured behind the shapeless garments that comprise the handmaidens' wear. A handmaiden thinks first of her Queen's pleasure, after all.

They leave the room together, Padmé a step behind the Queen. Padmé darts ahead to open the door. “My Queen,” Padmé says, and the Queen smiles.


End file.
